


The Good Brother

by Nomme_de_Plume



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomme_de_Plume/pseuds/Nomme_de_Plume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa falls in with the wrong Clegane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebright_l](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebright_l/gifts), [SoulOfSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulOfSnow/gifts).



Sansa Stark bolted upright out of a sound sleep. At first she didn’t know what it was that had awoken her. The Eyrie was dark and still, a cold moon carving a swath of white light across the floor of her room. Sansa tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear and took a breath. _It was just a dream_ , she told herself. Go back to sleep. _Robin will need you in the mor-_

 __  
There was a sudden, wet thunk against her bedroom door, and Sansa started. Her eyes widened as a thick, dark liquid began to seep under the bottom, spreading over the cool stones that made up the floor. Her heart in her throat, Sansa slipped out of bed and crept slowly across the floor. One of the servants snuck to the kitchen for wine, that’s it. Some of the Dornish red, no doubt. Yet as she drew closer, Sansa knew it wasn’t wine. Her fingers, pale in the moonlight, reached out on their own accord but before they could reach the dark liquid, the door burst open.

  
Sansa screamed, stumbling back. The corpse of one of the household guards tumbled into her room, slashed open from shoulder to hip. The guard’s eyes were wide and staring, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

  
“A-Altan?” she whispered. Altan Waters had always been kind to her, and had a gentle hand when Robin was having one of his fits. A shadow fell across her but before she could move a hand seized her upper arm, gripping it tight enough to crush the bones. “Scream, bitch.” A low voice snarled near her ear. “Scream and it’ll be the last noise you ever make.”

  
Trembling, Sansa craned her neck to look at her captor. He was taller than her, taller than Altan, and built like an ox. There was a reek of sour meat and cheap wine about him, and something else that Sansa couldn’t place. “Who are you?” she whispered. The man twisted her arm painfully, and she cried out. “Please, you’re hurting me!”

  
In a flash, she felt the cold kiss of a blade against her throat. “Your name, bitch.”

  
Sansa swallowed and tried to blink away the tears building up in her eyes. “Alayne. Alayne Stone. I’m Lord Baelish’s n-natural daughter.” The blade pressed harder and Sansa thought she felt a drop of blood running down her throat. “By the gods, I swear! Please!”

  
The man holding her chuckled, a low, ominous sound. “Your maidenhead – is it intact?” The tears overwhelmed Sansa as she nodded. “Excellent. My master will love that.” He shifted his grip, grabbing a handful of her hair. Sansa tried not to cry out as he dragged her out of her room and towards the Eyrie’s main hall.

  
“Who are you?” Sansa’s voice wobbled as he yanked her around corner after corner. “Why are you doing this?” Her captor never answered her, just paused at the intersection of two hallways. Sansa managed to glance up, and choked back a scream at what she saw.

  
A handful of servants lay in a bloodied pile, blood pooling around them. One of them had been disemboweled; the girl’s entrails roped out onto the stone floor like glistening snakes. A second had been nearly decapitated, while a third looked as though they’d been cut in two. Sansa felt herself jerked around and a mailed fist slammed into her jaw, sending her sprawling. She landed inches away from the dead bodies, her hand slipping into the blood. With a wordless cry, she scrambled away from them. She cowered in a corner as her captor strode over to her again. For the first time she saw the hilt of a sword and she thought he would kill her then and there. He stooped, grabbed her arm again, and yanked her to her feet. He pulled her the rest of the way to the main hall.

  
“Alayne!” Robin’s plaintive cry echoed through the cavernous room as Sansa was again thrown to the ground. She regained her feet quickly, skittering to the frail boy. He threw himself into her arms and she felt his frame shaking. _Please, please calm down Robin._ “Alayne, what’re the bad men doing?”

  
“I don’t know, Sweetrobin,” she whispered, smoothing his sweat-soaked hair back. “But just – just do what he says, alright? Do what he says and we won’t get hurt.” Please, please don’t let him hurt us, she prayed to whatever god may be passing by.

  
The sounds of a scuffle drew her attention to the doorway. She glanced, gasped, and drew Robin’s head into her bosom to shield her from what a second man was dragging in. It was Petyr Baelish, or what was left of him. It looked as though Littlefinger had tried to put up a fight when he was pulled from his bed. One eye was swollen shut, blood sheeting down his face from a gash in his forehead. From the way he was cradling his left arm, Sansa knew it was broken, and badly. 

  
Petyr was thrown towards her and Robin, and painfully gained his feet. Their captors stood before them, a third one joining the other two. Robin had drawn his head away from Sansa, but at the sight of the third man he whimpered. “Alayne,” he whispered loudly. “Make them go away! I command it!”

  
“Shhh,” Sansa shushed him, casting a fearful glance at Petyr. The Eyrie’s supposed to be untouchable. Impregnable.

  
“Who is your leader?” Petyr was asking the three men. Sansa took a closer look at them. Large, muscular, scarred, the lot of them. They wore mismatched, dented armor with no sigils or markings. Sellswords. Outlaws.

  
The biggest man, the one who had dragged Littlefinger in, spoke. His voice was rough. “That would be none of your business, Baelish. There’s wealth in these halls, we heard. Gold in the walls. Lady Lysa been hoardin’ it up for years, since Lord Arryn died.”

  
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Littlefinger replied smoothly. “Now, if you’d be so good as to leave the same way you came, I’d be willing to overlook the…unfortunate injuries you’ve inflicted on my staff-“  
The sound of leather screaming against metal, a gleam of silver in the moonlight, and there was a hot spray against Sansa’s face. Littlefinger made a harsh, strangled sound and sank to his knees. His throat had been opened from one ear to the other, and by the time he collapsed onto his face, the leader of the sellswords had wiped the blood off his blade and tucked it back in its sheath.

  
Sansa could not scream. Her breath had fled, leaving her skin alternating between hot and cold. While Robin shrieked, she raised a shaking hand to her face. Her jaw, already tender from the previous blow, was now spattered with Littlefinger’s blood. “Robin, hush now, Robin, please.” She babbled, trying to regain control of the boy. His shaking grew worse and she prayed he wouldn’t have a full-on fit. Please, not here, not now. She tried to wrap her arms around him, but he pushed away. "Robin, please-"

  
Her captor reached forward and snatched him out of her grasp like a hawk would a fish from a lake. Robin screamed louder, kicking and flailing uselessly as he was pulled across the hall. With one hand, the man wrenched open the Moon Door. A bone-chilling blast of wind pelted Sansa, so cold it burned. Robin yelled again, reaching for the door frame.

  
Sansa raced across the room, screaming. ”Robin! For the gods’ sake, no!” As easily as if he were flicking a fly from his ale, Sansa’s captor flung the boy into the harsh winter night. His thin screams lingered long after he did.

  
“NO!” Sansa screamed until her throat was raw. “No, how could you?! He was a boy! A child!” She flung herself at her captor, pummeling him ineffectively. “He didn’t do anything, he doesn’t know anything! There’s no gold here!”

  
The man grabbed her arm again, pulling her away from the door. He whirled her around and slammed her against the wall, stunning her into dizzy silence. “Tell me your name. Your _real_ name, bitch.”

  
“Alayne Stone, I already told-“ The blow that followed made Sansa’s head ring and, she thought, broke her jaw.

  
“You’re no more Alayne Stone than I am the High Septon.” The man snarled. “Littlefinger didn’t have no bastards. Tell me the truth and you won’t suffer. Lie to me again,” He loosened his sword in its scabbard, “and I can’t make no promises.”

  
Sansa looked from Petyr’s bloodless corpse to the still-open Moon Door and felt the last of her resolve crumble. “I …my name is Sansa. Sansa Stark.” The man drew his sword and held hit high over Sansa’s head. Sansa’s eyes widened. “But you said-“

  
“I said you wouldn’t suffer.” He brought the hilt down on the side of Sansa’s head. There was a brief flash of white pain, then sweet darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Robin was falling. Her Sweetrobin was falling, screaming, gone. Sansa’s own scream was ripped from her lungs as she lunged for him, but it was too late. She skidded across the stone floor towards the open Moon Door and realized too late she was going over as well. Her nails scrabbled uselessly, ripping and bleeding as she went careening into the bitter night-

-and jerked awake. She blinked and tried to reach her hand up to rub the sleep out of her eyes, but her hand wouldn’t move. Neither would her other one. Sansa blinked again and realized she wasn’t in her bed in the Eyrie – she was bound hand and foot on the back of a mule, wrapped roughly in a musty cloak and furs, and there was a firm mass behind her. _It wasn’t a dream._ Sansa’s heart rocketed into her throat but before she could do so much as cry out, she felt a sharp pressure at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.

“I will have to ask you to remain quiet, little wolf.” Despite the wind howling and ice pelting her, the voice in Sansa’s ear was soft as silk, low. Menacing, but not as coarse as the man who’d killed Robin and Littlefinger. “I would hate for you to cause a fuss at this elevation, especially when you consider the fact that my lord is already in a fouler mood than usual.”

Sansa didn’t know if she was shivering from fright or cold. “Tell me your name.”

“Not today. Besides, you are not in the position to be giving commands.”

“Who is your lord, then? Tell me, please. _Please_ , and I’m not commanding, I-“

“You are a greatly wanted woman, little wolf. Surely you know you and your lord husband stand accused of murdering your king.”

“I didn’t murder-“

“I do not particularly care if you did or did not. I am telling you who my lord is. As I was saying, you and your lord husband stand accused of murdering your king, and his mother has let loose her most rabid dog to find you.”

 _Dog?_ Sansa couldn’t tell if her heart lurched or if the mule she rode on stumbled. Surely he didn’t mean- no. No. The Hound had been gone since Blackwater and the green night. The mule snorted, startling Sansa.

“I will not be boring you with the details, but my lord did, in fact, find you. Well,” the man’s torso twitched slightly and Sansa assumed he had chuckled. “One of his men did. That is a great deal of why he is in such a foul mood. You see, the last thing my good lord said to us after we ascended this horrid lump of rock was to alert him if they found you. He wanted to be the one to rouse you, Baelish, and the boy. He was the one who wanted to have your fear, your final screams.  But, sellswords being what they are, did not listen. While you were being pulled from your bed, my lord was having his way with one of the kitchen maids. Well,” another twitch, “his sword was, at least. Perhaps his dagger; he may have been feeling kind.”

Sansa swallowed hard against the stone of terror in her throat. “And now he’s angry.”

“Less angry than he was. When he saw the boy gone, Baelish dead, and you sleeping sweetly on the floor, his blood rose. The three men who disobeyed him now find their heads decorating spikes atop the mountain, with certain parts of their male anatomy residing in their mouths. Tell me, are you in any discomfort?”

The abruptness of the question caught Sansa unawares. “I- I’m cold. And my head and jaw hurt.”

There was a soft rustling behind her, and a gloved hand pressed a small wineskin to her lips. “Milk of the poppy. Drink. Sleep. When you wake, it will be warmer.” Sansa eyed the skin suspiciously and said nothing. “I will not let you fall, little wolf. I am fond of my life and do not wish to end up like my comrades atop the mountain.”

 _I’m good as dead. There’s no one left to save me now._ Clumsily, she swallowed once, twice. Within minutes her eyes started to drift shut.

~~

“Little wolf.”

“Mmh.”

“ _Little wolf._ ” There was a sharp blow to the back of her head. “You must awake.”

Sansa’s spine snapped upright and this time she remembered exactly where she was – still on a mule, still bound, still not even knowing what the man she rode with looked like. Her jaw and head still throbbed, but less than they had, and the wind was less severe. Their party had finally made it down the mountains of the Eyrie and had stopped in copse of bare, black trees. The sky above was a cool purple, and Sansa was able to pick out a few stars. If it weren’t for the horror she’d seen only hours before, Sansa would’ve thought it beautiful.

Sansa’s new captor swung himself off their mule and untied her wrists and ankles, lifting her easily off the animal. “Easy, there. Try not to draw attention to yourself. My lord will want to see you in a short time.” There was a decided note of grimness to his voice.

When Sansa finally got a look at the man she’d ridden down a mountain with, she was surprised. He was a small man, a few inches shorter than her. His hair was dark and thick, curling over a smooth bronze forehead. His face was pert, smart, open, and she noticed with a jolt that his right eye was nothing but a mass of scar tissue, twisted and raw. Sansa forced herself not to stare, and instead to focus on the rest of him. His left eye was the color of spring’s fertile soil, his body lithe and blade-thin, quick even though he wasn’t moving.

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Your lady mother told you staring is rude, no?”

Sansa nodded curtly. “Of course. I’m sorry, Ser…?”

“Not a Ser. Just Renard. ” He laughed. “We will all camp here tonight, and then come dawn we ride south. Possibly west. My lord has not divulged yet.”

For the first time, Sansa was aware of the rest of their party. She turned and gasped. There were maybe half a hundred and half again here, men of assorted age and rank from the looks of their armor. A few small campfires had sprung up, with even fewer tents. At the far end of the camp, Sansa spied a massive black warhorse pawing angrily at the snow while a skinny squire struggled to tie its reins to a stake in the ground.

Renard followed her gaze. “My lord’s mount. He’s only had him a short while. Apparently he had another one, a bigger one. Rumor has it he killed it-”

“-at the Hand’s Tourney in King’s Landing.” Sansa finished flatly. There was a tent near the horse, she saw now. The flap opened, and with cold horror she watched as Renard’s lord emerged. She sank to her knees, oblivious of the snow soaking through her thin gown. The tears that had been prickling at the backs of her eyes finally spilled onto her frigid cheeks, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach. _You won’t see the morning now. He won’t suffer you to live._

As if he could hear her thoughts, Gregor Clegane’s dark, empty eyes turned across the camp and locked onto her. He snarled something at his squire, and started to stride across the camp.

Renard’s hand was suddenly at her elbow, helping her back to her feet. “Do not cry. He did not come all this way to kill you.” He said softly. “When he takes you, save yourself some pain and give him what he wants.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

“On your knees.” The tent flapped closed and Ser Gregor’s massive bulk blocked out the dim light of the campfires flickering outside.

Sansa could hear the quiet chatter of the men outside. They’d grown quiet as Ser Gregor had led her across the camp, and those who had met her eyes did so with the softest ghost of sympathy. She looked at her hands now, clasped in front of her. She knew the man behind her could kill her with a single blow, and yet she still hesitated.

She heard his heavy footfall behind her and a giant’s hand pressed down on her shoulder. Her knees bent, sinking into the cold ground. “I said on your knees.” Sansa remained silent while Ser Gregor strode around to face her. She kept her eyes on the ground. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve been?” Sansa fought off a shiver at the sound of his voice. The only times she could recall hearing him speak, he’d been roaring about something or another, screaming at his squires. This time, she realized, this time was more frightening. Ser Gregor’s voice was deathly quiet, starting in a low growl somewhere deep in his chest. “ _Do you_?”

“No.” The word stuck in Sansa’s throat. She cleared it and tried again. “No, my lord.”

“Because of you, the cunt Queen has had me drag my men halfway across Westeros. I started out with twice as many bodies as you see out there. Half of them have been killed by godsdamned mountain tribes or sickness or each other. Do you have _any idea how much it has cost me?_ ”

“No, my lord.”

He was pacing now, his breathing hard and fast. It reminded Sansa of the Hand’s Tournament so many years ago, it seemed, when he had fought The Hound. A feeling of regret welled up in her chest, stealing her breath away. _Please, please just let me go back to that day. I won’t tell the Queen we planned to leave, Father won’t die, Arya wouldn’t be lost. None of this would’ve happened. Please…_ she tried to blink away her tears. Renard had told her not to cry. She had to be brave, strong. She was still a Stark, after all.

“The cunt Queen told me she wanted your maidenhead intact. Do you want to know why?”

“If it please you.” If Ser Gregor’s voice could burn like a wildfire, Sansa would make hers cold as the ice that would envelope Winterfell.

“I heard her ranting and raving at King’s Landing. She was half in her cups, going on about what she was going to do to you when you were brought back. She wants to watch, you see.”

“Watch, my lord?”

“Watch while she has you raped to death, watch while the flesh is torn from your bones, and watch while you are pulled limb from limb by wild dogs.” Suddenly, Ser Gregor’s voice was in her ear, his breath hot and stale on her neck. “If you’re lucky, it’ll happen in that order. If I’m involved, it won’t.”

Sansa raised her eyes enough to stare dead ahead. “Pray, what does all that have to do with my maidenhead, my lord?”

Ser Gregor roared behind her, picking her up and bodily throwing her onto a rough pile of furs. She landed hard on her stomach, the wind knocked from her. She tried to curl up and catch her breath, but suddenly he was on her. His massive hands seized her hips roughly, pulling her to her knees while forcing her chest down. He held her there with one hand and she heard him fumble with the laces to his breeches with the other. That done, he pushed her thin gown over her hips and pressed his length against her backside. “The cunt Queen wants your maid’s blood. If it’ll stop her bitching, she can have it. There’s more than one way to have a girl.”

Before Sansa could properly work out what he had said her body was wracked with a burning, unnatural pain centered between her hips. She couldn’t even gasp or cry out – Ser Gregor was moving in her in a way she hadn’t even thought possible. She bit her lower lip hard enough to taste blood and dug her fingers into the furs underneath her. _Give him what he wants, child,_ Renard had told her. _Save yourself some pain._ She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the pain and remember the first time she’d heard those words. Instead of thinking about the monster ravaging her, tearing her small body apart, she shifted her thoughts to his brother. Some thought him more a monster, but she remembered the surprisingly gentle way he’d wiped blood off her lip and the way he’d looked at her as the Blackwater burned. _Why didn’t I go with him?_ _Why was I so scared and stupid?_

After what felt like hours, Ser Gregor’s grip on her hips tightened, hard enough now that she thought he would crush the bones. He pumped in her faster and the pain of it forced a cry out from between her lips now. If anything, it seemed to excite him more. His body slapped against hers as he shouted wordlessly, shuddering to slow stop deep inside of her.

When he pulled out of her, she collapsed and curled into a ball on the furs. She hugged her knees to her chest as Ser Gregor barked an order to his squire. A moment later Sansa felt a small, warm hand pulling her to her feet. She followed him numbly back to Renard. The small man wrapped a cloak around her and bade her sit in front of the small fire he’d created. He sat across from her, his remaining eye betraying no emotion but Sansa knew he was well aware of what Ser Gregor had done to her. The entire camp was. After a moment, he reached into the fire near the base and pulled a metal cup out of the embers. Steam rose from it while he added a bit of brown powder. He held it out to her, and she stared at it dumbly. “Drink.”

“No.” Her voice was quiet. She perched delicately on the edge of a log, trying not to move. Her entire body was a ribbon of pain, and she could feel blood and Ser Gregor’s leavings mixed on her thighs. He had left her maidenhead intact, as the Queen apparently desired, but he had taken her in a way that left her feeling more shamed and soiled than she ever had in her life. Bruises were already blossoming on her hips. She didn’t have to see them to know, and her ribs hurt where she’d landed on them.

Renard knelt in front of her, took her hand, and wrapped it around the tin cup. “Drink. It will help the pain.”

Her eyes flicked over his face briefly. “If I sleep after I drink this will I wake tomorrow?”

“It is not Tears of Lys. It is simply tea made with ground willow bark. It will help.”

Sansa didn’t want to, but she did. She couldn’t hurt any more than she did now. The tea was bitter and had the undercurrent of dirt, but she didn’t really care. “Will he do this again?”

“Frequently.”

“Frequently.” Sansa stared at him. “And you do nothing. Every man here does nothing.”

“Every man here values their life, wretched as it may be. They would be foolish to come between Gregor Clegane and what he wants.”

“I know someone who did, once.” Sansa replied and sipped the tea again. It seemed to get bitterer with every sip.

“Foolish man.”

Sansa didn’t reply.

\--

Riding was agony. Every night when they stopped, Sansa was nearly faint from the pain and every night when they stopped Ser Gregor would have her brought to his tent where he would take her and discard her. Some nights he used her mouth, some nights he used her backside. Some nights he used both. When the pain began to be too much, Sansa found herself thinking of The Hound more and more. She would close her eyes and imagine his stern, cold gaze; the gruff sound of his voice when he spoke to her, the feel of his scars under her hands the night the Blackwater burned. She started to wonder what it would feel like if it were he were inside her, and his hands were on her. Would he have been rough and cruel as his brother, or would he bring her pleasure? Would his teeth tear at her skin like Ser Gregor’s, or would the twisted remains of his lips caress her like in the songs? Would he love her, or use her? _Stupid girl,_ she told herself  as she bled under Ser Gregor. _You’ll never know. He’s gone away from you and is better for it._

When Ser Gregor would finish, she would be returned to Renard, who would be waiting with a tin cup of willow bark tea or some other herb that would take the worst edge off the pain. She learned that while he was not a maester, Renard was wise in the way of medicine. He could look at any root, leaf, or mushroom and say almost immediately if it could kill a man. He had been part of the small party that had scaled the Eyrie while the rest had lingered below, but he would not tell Sansa if he had killed any of the servants within.

He had also replaced the mule they rode down the mountain with a large, gentle vanilla-colored draft horse. The mare’s liquid brown eyes looked dolefully at Sansa as if she could sense the girl’s pain and fear, but Sansa took small comfort from it. There was a long, elegant bow strapped across the back of the saddle, but Sansa had yet to see Renard use it and didn’t care enough to ask.

Sansa began to long for King’s Landing. Her death awaited her there, but she no longer cared. When the Stranger came for her, she would welcome him with open arms.


	4. Chapter 4

Sometime between the seventh and eighth night of her captivity, Sansa felt a hand brush across her forehead. She tried to swat it away to no avail.

  
“Sansa. _Sansa_.”

  
She blinked, rubbing a hand across her eyes. “Renard?”

  
“No, child. Open your eyes.  
  
Bewildered, Sansa opened her eyes. She was no longer in the barren, cold woods west of the Vale; instead, she was in the godswood at Winterfell. The landscape was blanketed in snow save for the immediate area, which was bathed in the fallen red leaves of the resident wierwood. Snow fell gently, but Sansa didn’t feel the cold. She didn’t feel anything.

  
Sitting on a fallen log across from her was her father. He looked healthier than she last remembered him. His face was healthy, his eyes bright, his frame strong and sure. His hands rested easy on his knees, and his gaze was quiet.  
  
Sansa felt the hot prickling of tears behind her eyes. “Father?” At his nod, she let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding. “But you’re dead. I saw you, Joffrey showed me your head.”  
  
“And you’re as scared now as you were then, child. “

  
“The Queen means to have me dead for killing Joffrey and I can’t stop her.”  
  
Ned Stark rose and came to sit next to her, his back resting against the bleached white wood. Sansa leaned against his arm, basking in his solidity, the warm scent rising off him, the rise and fall of his chest. He draped his arm across her shoulders, and Sansa felt like a little girl all over again. “Tell me what our sigil is.” he said. The words rumbled in his chest, and she remembered all the times she’d lean her ear right where it was now and hear him tell her stories of the North, of their anscestors.   
  
“A direwolf.”  
  
“Stronger, bigger, and some would say braver than a regular wolf. Do you remember when I told you and Arya that even if the pack dies, the wolf will survive?” She nodded, and he continued. “You know our pack is scattered. Some are dead.”  
  
The tears that had been building threatened to spill over. “Mother and Robb, Bran, Rickon and you. This is all my fault, Father. If I hadn’t told the Queen we were leaving King’s Landing, if I’d told the truth about when Joffrey attacked the butcher’s boy -”  
  
“Hush, Sansa, hush now.” Ned’s large, rough hands were stroking her hair while she cried. “You didn’t mean for all this to happen. I know that, and so does your mother and everyone else.”  
  
Sansa was quiet for a while. “Why am I here?”  
  
“You’re here so I can remind you to stay strong. You haven’t given up yet, but you’re so close to it, child. You’ve forgotten who you are, and who the Starks are.” Ned’s tone was still gentle, although the words hit Sansa like a blow from a warhammer. “There must always be a Stark at Winterfell. Do you remember that?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Reclaim your home. If you ride north and call our bannermen, you can do it. You have to do it.”  
  
Sansa raised her tear-stained face from Ned’s chest and took solace in his soft grey eyes. “How?”  
  
“I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you is that you won’t be able to do it on the way to King’s Landing.”  
  
 _Escape. Escape from The Mountain That Rapes._  
  
“It won’t be easy.” Ned continued as though he’d heard her thoughts. _Who knows, he might have._ “But you’re strong, Sansa. Stronger than you remember. You have untold courage and heart and brains in your head. Use them.”  
  
The quiet landscape was starting to fade. Sansa straightened, her heart starting to pound. “Don’t leave me, Father.” All was a dim grey-white now, including Ned. “I can’t do this alone!”  
  
Her father’s eyes smiled and he touched her cheek. “You’re not alone, child. Just because you can’t see your pack doesn’t mean it’s not all around you.”  
  
oOo  
  
Sansa’s eyes snapped open and she was once again on the cold ground in a makeshift tent. Her body still ached in the most horrible of ways, but she was starting to numb herself to it. Renard lay across the tent from her, his one eye open, unblinking. “Who did you dream of?”  
  
She sat up and shook her head. “No one.”  
  
“Do not lie to me. You spoke. You wept. You dreamed of someone.”

  
“I spoke?” Sansa was genuinely surprised. “What did I say?”  
  
“You asked ‘how’, and then begged someone to not leave you. A lost love, perhaps? A family member?” Renard’s quick lips quirked in a smile.  
  
“Oh. It...it was nothing. Just a dream, I suppose.”  
  
“You are a terrible liar.”  
  
Sansa glared at him. “What does it matter what I dreamed? It’s none of your business.” She jerked her blankets up over her chest and turned away from Renard and his prying eye. She heard him chuckle.  
  
“I think you are planning something, and that it would be stupid to try to escape.”  
  
Sansa’s breath solidified in her throat. “I’m not.” It was a good thing she wasn’t facing him, lest he see the bright red lie rise across her cheeks.  
  
“Good.” She heard Renard shift. “For however bad the punishment the Queen has in store for you, it would seem like Paradise compared to what else Ser Gregor would do to you should you try to get away.”  
  
Sansa rolled over, facing him again. Renard had taken his long bow off the back of his horse and was stringing it, nimble fingers twining a pale rope. “You’d kill me if I ran, wouldn’t you.”  
  
“I would.” He answered, not looking up from his work. “I value my life. You know that, and you know I value it above yours. I will not give you a mercy killing, if that is what you think.”  
  
“I’m not asking you to.”  
  
His gaze flickered up at her briefly. “Good. Mercy, it is for the weak. You are not weak, are you.”  
  
“No.” Sansa replied gazing at the shadows the flickering campfires were casting outside the tent. “I am not weak.

It was close to dawn before Sansa finally heard Renard sleep. The rest of the camp was finally deathly still, quieter than Sansa thought it could be. She took a breath, let it out as silently as she could, and slid out from underneath her thin blankets. Gathering up what food she could, she tucked the remainder of a loaf of stale brown bread and hard cheese into her cloak. She lifted the tent flap slowly, peering out to see if anyone was awake. When there was no movement and no eyes met hers, she slid her slender body out and quietly let the flap drop.

Sansa held her breath and kept her weight on the balls of her feet, creeping around sleeping bodies and looking out for anything that would give her away.  The trees gradually enveloped her, but she knew she wasn’t safe, that she wouldn’t be safe until …well, never. When the last lights of the campfires had vanished, she let her breath out, taking stock of what she had, and what she should do now.

 _You have enough food for maybe a week if you stretch it, no water, but there is snow here and there. You have no weapons, no horse, no proper clothing, no allies, no idea of where you are and no idea where to go. When Father told you to reclaim the North this isn’t what he had in mind. You will die in a week, if not sooner._ Sansa gave herself a mental shake. _No. You the Lady of Winterfell, Heiress to the North, last wolf of the pack. You_ will _find a way to get through this. You’ve no other choice. Use what you’ve got. Think like Arya._

Sansa closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to think what her constantly annoying but admittedly resourceful sister would do. When she opened them, she was able to see more clearly. She looked up, trying to pick out a familiar star or constellation. She found the Great Shadowcat, his celestial ears pointing ever westward. _There. If that’s west, then east is behind you, and north is to your right.  Now, use your ears. Arya used to be able to hear through walls._

The pre-dawn woods were still deathly silent. No birds, no rustling branches, no wind. Just…there. _What is that? Water. A stream, or a river? Get to it, and follow it. Follow it downstream._ Sansa aimed herself in a roughly southward direction and started walking. Sure enough, the rushing sound got clearer as she got closer. The ground started tilting up, and Sansa became winded quickly. She held on to a barren white  birch while she tried to catch her breath, trying not to imagine Ser Gregor stomping through the woods, his massive longsword thirsting for her blood or other horrible things he could do to her. _Few things could be worse than what’s waiting for you at the Red Keep, or what he’s done to you already._ The thought strengthened her somewhat, and she stood up straight. The soil was rocky the higher she climbed, and she could see the end of the trees up ahead. She’d keep low to the ground, get a view of her surroundings. With any luck, there’d be a village or an inn she could stop at. _You have no coin. But you can sing, and Septa Mordane made sure you knew the value of hard work._

Sansa reached the top of the hill. Below her, there was a sharp drop to a rolling, black river. She swallowed, spotting a few chunks of ice spinning in the dark water, bouncing off jagged rocks.  Suddenly, Sansa felt her courage wilt. This was folly. Worse, this was stupid. Who did she think she was, trying to run away from the most dangerous, most brutal man in the kingdom in a coming winter with no more supplies than a week’s worth of moldering bread. _Go back to the camp. With any luck, you can sneak back into the tent and if Renard wakes up, just tell him you needed to relieve yourself. You’ll stand a better chance of escaping on a caravan out of King’s Landing, or maybe a ship. Out here you’ll die._

She heard the whisper of the arrow a split second before it slammed into the base of her spine, driving her to her knees. The pain that shot up her spine made her cry out, dizzy with pain. Her spine burned worse than anything she’d felt. She tried to gain her feet, only to have a second arrow pierce her back higher up, near her right shoulder. The blood started to run down her back, hot in the cold winter morning. Her body was starting to go numb and the dream of seeing Winterfell again scattered like so many ashes in the wind. _No. Not like this, not like-_ Sansa tried to draw a breath, only to realize she could only suck in a whisper of air. She coughed, the force of it making it feel like someone as driving the arrows further into her back. She coughed again, desperately, and felt something wet shoot into her hand.

There was a sigh behind her before a booted foot nudged her hip. Sansa lost her balance, rolling onto her back and twisting the arrows further in. She writhed on the cold ground and screamed, the sound wet and bloody. Tears welled out of her eyes, and her fingers scrabbled uselessly at the dirt. A figure blotted out the stars above her, and she heard another sigh.

“I told you I would kill you if you tried to run, no?” Renard sat back on his haunches, looking down at her without emotion.

Sansa’s legs were numb and the hollowness was starting to creep to her belly and fingers. “I am a Stark.” she said faintly. Speaking was getting more difficult. “We are the wolves of winter and do not give in to the lions.”

 Distantly she heard a low thundering in the ground. _Hooves. He’s coming for me. Ser Gregor’s coming for me._ She turned her head, resting her cheek on the cold dirt. _I’m sorry Father. You had too much faith in me. I can’t save House Stark. All I can do is die in the dirt._ Sansa fought for another breath, feeling oddly at peace.  _See where thinking like Arya has gotten me…_

The thundering was louder now, accompanied by crashing and snapping branches. Dawn was breaking and through it, she could see a hulking black beast and rider, a pair bred for blood and death.

Sansa smiled, and there was no pain.

 

 


End file.
